


Caught in a Blizzard

by orphan_account



Category: Actor RPF, Buster Keaton - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Road Trips, Snowed In, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 09:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27967985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A short fic about getting stuck in a snowstorm with buster keaton. Yep.
Relationships: Buster Keaton/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

You tried to see, in your mind’s eye, how you would look with the color drained from your face, your image seared onto the dark lengths of film. The false snow piled gently onto your shoulders and you turned your face towards the studio light, the better to catch the highlights in your eyes and, god willing, make a good enough impression on the audience to secure a career in pictures.

“Good, now look down at the letter, sigh, shiver, and go back into the house.” Mr. Keaton had a no nonsense manner of directing that put your nerves on edge, never knowing if you were doing well or if he was disappointed and frustrated with your performance. It was enough to give you whiplash, the way he turned on a dime between the silly, boyish character he played and the consummate professional he was when he stepped behind the camera.

You did as he directed, carefully moving through the steps, trying to encapsulate the feeling of wistfulness in a few silent movements and facial expressions.

“No. No no no, this just isn’t right.”

Your heart dropped as you turned back to look at him. He was only a few inches taller than you but the respect his name commanded was evident in his posture. The displeasure on his famous face was enough to make you fear for your whole career. 

“You want me to try again? I can get it right this time I promise.”

His eyes flicked from the scenery to your face and softened. He smiled, a slight lifting of the corner of one side of his lips that would have been easy to miss if it weren't on the famously un-smiling face.

“Not you, honey. You were perfect.”

The relief you felt must have been plain on your face because he chuckled softly before returning to his stern consternation as he examined the scene.

“It’s this snow.” He stepped forward to stoop over and pick up a handful of the small specks of cotton. “It’s too heavy. Too fluffy. It doesn’t look like snow at all. People are going to wonder why this picture takes place inside an exploding textile mill.”

He looked around, the wheels in his head turning. His black eyebrows furrowed. Suddenly, he announced lunch break and you watched him shove his hands in his pockets and stalk off the set before returning to your cramped little dressing room.

It was only a little more than an hour later when there was a knock at the door. You opened it to a young boy, barely a teenager by the looks of him, wearing a cap and looking eager to be helpful.

“Mr. Keaton says to pack your things. He’s moving production up to Washington.”

“Washington the state?” You asked in disbelief.

The boy grinned. “Well he hasn’t suddenly decided to make a run for president, ma’am.”

“When?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Stage hands are already getting everything loaded into trucks. I guess as soon as possible.”

You told him you would get packed up right away and shut the door. Suddenly you were in a panic. You had only just been settling into the workday routine on the lot and now he was uprooting everything. Mechanically, you started piling your possessions into a case that you pulled out from under the settee.

Your mind rushed with unanswered questions. How long would you be gone? How would you pay for lodging? How would you even get up there without a car of your own?

Another knock came to the door and you clutched the sweater you were packing against your chest, as if bracing yourself against the impact of more upsetting news. “Yes?” You called.

The door opened and Mr Keaton’s face appeared. “Hey kid, you heard the news, right?”

“Yes, sir.” You said. “I’m getting my things together.”

He glanced around the small room, apparently taking in the mess. You felt your face flush.

“It occurs to me that you may not have a ride. A bunch of the extras and management are buying up a few train cars. You can go with them if you want. I’m covering expenses, of course.”

“Oh.” Relief flooded you. “That sounds fine. Thank you.”

“Or you can ride with me,” he added quickly, as if he had meant to say it earlier. “Feels a bit ungenerous for a leading lady to be packed in with the prop department. They’re fine fellas, of course. Don’t mean to imply that they aren’t. But well...anyway I just thought I’d offer.”

“Ride with you?”

He smiled, seeming to relax a bit as he folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. “Sure. I’ve got a new car and I’ve barely had the chance to break her in. A good long drive sounds marvelous to me. There’s plenty of room. We can even take the scenic route if you want.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” 

“Is that a yes?” He asked.

You nodded, somewhat tongue-tied by the whole interaction.

“Perfect,” he said, grinning again. “Be ready by five, we’ll get a head start on the rest of them.” He slapped the doorframe by way of punctuation and as quickly as he had appeared he was gone, shutting the door behind him.

You were frozen for a moment, your heart pounding strangely at the thought of spending hours in a car with Mr. Keaton alone. It occurred to you that he might think that this would be a good time to teach you a thing or two about acting. He was always quite gentle with you on the set but you knew that your beginners mistakes must be irritating to him. He probably thought you needed all the coaching you could get.

You set your jaw and continued packing, determined to make a good impression on him along the journey.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a road trip and a rather rude assumption

By five, your room was stripped bare and you were perched nervously on the edge of a chair waiting for the famous star and director to appear and whisk you away. As you waited, you were mentally compiling a list of things to talk about. The thought of sitting next to him in silence for hours on end filled you with enough horror to make you almost regret coming to California in the first place.

He was ten minutes late, and he sauntered up to you twirling a set of keys around his finger.

“All set?” He asked.

You nodded and he took up your suitcases, lifting them as though they weighed nothing. Carrying a couple of hat boxes yourself, you followed him to where a gleaming black packard was waiting. You stared at the shining automobile as he deftly piled your things into the back.

“Ain’t she pretty?” He asked when he closed the trunk and caught you staring, gobsmacked, at the blatant display of wealth.

“You really are fabulously rich, aren’t you?” You asked. Immediately you wished you could take the gauche and tasteless words back.

He took it in stride, thankfully. He was laughing as he opened the door, took your hand, and helped you into the passenger seat. “I’ve done alright for myself,” he said good naturedly. “You’re well on your way to getting here too, you know.”

He closed the door and jogged around to the driver’s side and climbed in. The car started with a purr that brought a smile to his face anew. He smiled so easily, especially when he was away from work. It was unexpected, but the smile looked natural on his face.

“You really think so?” You asked, knowing that you sounded like a wide-eyed little girl asking, but not caring in the moment.

“Sure,” he said in that deep midwestern accent. “You’ve got the look, that goes without saying. Maybe lacking in the confidence department, but that will come with experience. Serious enough to take direction well but not so serious as to seem cold or unfunny. And hey,” he glanced over at you with something of a smirk. “Your name will be up with mine in a couple of months. That’s got to be a leg up, right?”

“Yes , yes of course it is. I am extremely grateful, Mr. Keaton. I don't know if I have told you so before but--"

"You have," he said, again with a light chuckle. "Many times, actually. You'd think I chose you as some sort of charity case and not because you have talent or potential."

You chewed on your lip, hoping that he was right. Of course there were always other jobs, you had a will to succeed in life and you’d make your way one way or another. But you’d, perhaps foolishly, set your heart on Hollywood a long time ago.

The first leg of the journey through California passed without any great incident. Conversation with the director moved smoothly from topic to topic. Keaton regaled you with stories of his strange boyhood and asked questions about your background. You were surprised at how interested he seemed in your thoughts and dreams. Maybe he was merely passing the time, but it was a nice feeling, especially in the anonymous and often performative world of Hollywood, to have someone take an interest in the workings of your mind.

The further north the two of you traveled, the cooler the weather became. The perpetual summer of Southern California melted away into the first proper autumn you’d experienced for a long time. Buster commented on it as well, his dark eyes seeming to drink in the muted grey colors of the chilly landscape.

“Getting closer now. I’m counting on there being plenty of snow in the mountains.” There 

“When is the last time you saw snow, Mr Keaton?”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Too long,” was the answer he finally decided on. 

You stopped at a tiny town for supper, Keaton’s car looking perfectly out of place in the sleepy neighborhood. He seemed unconscious of this, parking casually next to an inn and hopping out jovially to stretch his legs and open your door.

“I don’t think I can bear to sit still any more. Let’s get some supper and stay here tonight.”

You agreed, also eager to get out of the car. The inn was quaint and cozy, with a roaring fire in the main room, around which only a few people relaxed. You followed a step behind him as Keaton walked up to the innkeeper. You could see that he was a little bit nervous, probably not wanting to deal with the hassle of being recognized. Buster kept his hat pulled low over his forehead and he was smiling more than usual. The smile would do more to mask his identity than any hat. 

“A room for you and the missus, sir?” the innkeeper, a large man with broad hands and a missing incisor asked.

“Two rooms,” Mr. Keaton corrected. “She’s...uh...she’s my cousin.”

The innkeeper winked and touched the side of his nose in an impertinent manner that made a flush rise to your cheeks. “Adjoining rooms, then,” he said under his breath in a way that implied that he didn’t believe our cover story for a moment.

“Whatever you have is fine,” Buster said. He was looking more nervous by the moment, and you assumed he was afraid that the longer he spoke to the innkeeper the more likely it was that he would be recognized.

“Right this way, sir,” the man said and we followed him up a narrow set of wooden stairs to a long hallway lined with doors. The rooms he brought you to were small but comfortable, with a door connecting them.

You stepped into one of the rooms, taking in the sparse decor and the little window.

“Not very luxurious, I’m afraid.” Mr. Keaton said from the doorway after the innkeeper had retreated back downstairs.

You smiled as you turned back to him. “This is perfect for me. I’ve no complaints.”

“Don’t you worry about the connecting door,” he said, nodding to the door in question. “Sorry about the presumptions of our host. That’s just how it is, I suppose.”

“People have made assumptions about me since the moment I came to California, Mister Keaton. I assure you it doesn’t offend me anymore.”

“That tough skin will take you far in this business, kid.” He said in an appreciative tone that made your heart skip. “Dinner downstairs in fifteen, then?”

You nodded and he shut the door gently behind him as he left. You let out a slow breath. His presence was very affecting and the sudden absence of Mr. Keaton felt like suddenly stepping away from the warmth of a smoldering fire. 

You quickly freshened up, splashing your face with cool water from the tiny adjoining bathroom and applying a fresh dusting of perfumed powder before going down to join your boss for dinner.


	3. Chapter 3

The dining room downstairs had more people in it than you expected. In fact, it was quiet rowdy. Someone had brought out an accordion and was playing loudly while a young girl sang. You grinned, despite your exhaustion. After the hours in the quiet car, it was nice to be in a pleasant crowd again.

You found Buster seated already at a little table in a darker corner. There was a tenseness to his face that you figured was due to his anxiousness about not being recognized. You sat down across from him and some of his nervousness seemed to go away when he smiled.

“A little louder than I thought,” he said, his voice raising above the accordion.

“I don’t mind,” you replied. “Do you?”

He shook his head. “Not if you don’t.”

A serving girl approached and Buster leaned on his hand, trying to shield his face from the girl awkwardly. The two of you ordered your suppers. 

“You must get recognized a lot,” you asked when she had left.

“At home I do, and in big cities. I don’t know about little places like this but It’s best to be cautious, I think. Unlike Harold Lloyd I can’t just take off my glasses and become invisible.”

You laughed. “I guess anonymity has it’s perks.”

The food arrived promptly and, as the loud music made much conversation impossible, you passed the meal in relative silence. 

When you’d finished the last bite of your food, you stretched your arms over your head. There was a lull in the music and Buster leaned forward in his seat.

“It’s been a long day,” he said.

Thinking back to that morning, you were shocked to realize just how long a day it had been. You’d woken up with the dawn, eager to get back on the set to work another day. You’d spent hours working and only then was everything upended, all your belongings packed up, and jostled into the car with Buster to ride off into the darkness.

You nodded.

“Best head off to bed then,” he said with a fatherly nod.

He walked with you past the crowd and up the dark staircase. Dropping you off at your door he fidgeted, as though he didn’t know if he should shake your hand or what. He decided on an odd little pat to your shoulder that made you chuckle. The more time you spent with him the less you feared him. Underneath the fame and the power he was just a silly boy like all the rest. 

“Goodnight,” he said tersely.

“Goodnight, Mr Keaton.”

Once you were alone in the cramped bedroom your exhaustion hit you in earnest. You hardly had the wherewithal to wash your face and let down your hair before collapsing on the bed and slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep.

You were jolted awake to the sound of an accordion being played nearby. It was so loud you could have sworn that he was standing in your bedroom. You sat up so quickly that your head swam.

You slipped out of bed, sliding your feet into your slippers to protect from the uncovered wood floor that was icy cold this time of night. Poking your head out the window, you saw the accordion player pacing up and down the corridor. The innkeepers wife was worriedly following him, pleading with him in hushed tones to stop. He seemed drunk.

The door next to yours opened and Buster poked his head out. His hair was mussed and his eyes squinted at the relative brightness in the hall. He glanced at the scene then looked at you and laughed. His half-asleep smile was slightly crooked and your heart clenched at the sight of him like that. So unlike the business-minded director or the childish on screen character.

You retreated back into your room, shutting the door against the noise and hoping that the drunk accordionist would soon run himself down. The music wasn’t too bad, actually, and as you laid your head back in your pillow you let yourself enjoy it as you wondered what time it was. The sky outside had a reddish glow, the kind of mottled, ruddy moonlight that says snow is coming. You guessed it was sometime near dawn.

Tossing and turning, you couldn’t seem to get comfortable again. Even when the accordion player went back to bed, your mind was awake, and you itched to begin the day. By the end of it you would be in some unknown snowy landscape. The thought of acting while trying not to let your teeth chatter too much worried you, but this time alone with Mr Keaton was reassuring. You were getting to know him a little better, and he didn’t frighten you as much as he had before.

After a while you gave up on falling back to sleep. You threw the blanket off and reached for a wrap. The air was frosty and you sat on the edge of the bed wondering what you would do while you waited for the director to fetch you and begin the day.

As you wondered, you noticed that there was light coming underneath the door that adjoined his room to yours. Listening intently, you caught the sound of shuffling.

So, he wasn’t able to fall asleep again either.

Gathering up your courage, you wrapped your shawl tighter around yourself and padded quietly across the room to the door, knocking on it timidly.

You heard the shuffling stop, then his barefooted footsteps coming closer before he cracked the door open.

He was dressed now, sort of. His shirt was half tucked in and his hair was damp.

“Couldn’t sleep with that racket?” He asked.

You shook your head. “No, I thought I might as well get out of bed. Then I noticed the light from your room.”

“Shall we make a break for it before dawn?” He asked. there was something mischievous about his tone. 

“Sure,” you said.

“Come and eat with me,” he said, standing aside in the doorway. “I snuck down to the kitchen and got a cook to scrounge me up some breakfast. I’ll share with ya, then we can head out.”

Suddenly self conscious about your flannel pajamas and piano shawl ensemble, you stepped shyly into his room. It was nearly an exact copy of yours, except for a card table that was set up against the window with one chair at it. A hasty platter was on the table laden with a somewhat random collection of foods. You grinned to yourself, imagining the confused cook downstairs who had been tasked with throwing this pre-dawn meal together.

Meanwhile, Buster had slipped into your own room to fetch the chair and bring it into his, sliding it up to the little table where you both sat down.

“What time is it?” You asked.

“It’s uh...just after 4.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Heavens. That’s early.”

“Change your mind?” He asked, digging his thumbnail into an orange and ripping at the peel, sending the citrus scent into the small space.

“No,” you said. “It’s just...I can’t remember the last time I was up at this time.”

Buster poured a cup of deep black coffee and took a sip, then slid it across the table to you. You took a sip too. It was bitter, much stronger than you usually took it. But somehow it seemed to fit the mood. 

“It’s snowing,” he said.

You jerked your head toward the window and, sure enough, thick, fluffy snowflakes were falling through the shafts of moonlight.

For a moment you both sat there in silence, staring at the window. There was something magical about sitting there in the quiet inn, surrounded by unseen strangers sleeping deeply. You forgot about your awkward pajamas,and the strangeness of sharing this moment with Buster only added to the ethereal mood. It felt like a dream.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer, quieter, as if he was avoiding disturbing the snowflakes

You didn’t talk about anything much. Looking back, you wouldn’t even remember the contents of the conversation. All the same, you knew that strange little breakfast would stay with you forever and you were loathe to get up from the card table and return to your room to get dressed and ready to go.

When the two of you were back in the car, it was still dark and the road was slick, forcing Buster to drive slowly and carefully. He didn’t seem bothered by this, and he kept up the conversation admirably. His deep voice with it’s midwestern edge lulled you into a comfortable haze as you wound your way up the road.


	4. Chapter 4

When you woke again, you were jolted forward by the sudden movement of the car as it jostled over a rough bit of road. You looked around, bleary eyed. The sun was up now, but it was impossible to tell where it was. The white light was diffuse through the swirling snow in the air that pushed against the sides of the car.

“You’re up,” he said calmly, not taking his eyes from the treacherous road.

“What time is it?”

“Just before noon.”

“I’m sorry I fell asleep on you...” you said, trying to yawn discreetly. You had a crick in your neck and the intense weather made you uneasy. You couldn’t see any other cars on the narrow road that wound it’s way up a mountain you couldn’t see. 

“Don’t worry about it. I guess you needed the rest.”

“Some storm...” You said, rubbing your hands up and down your arms. It was cold in the car.

“Yeah, it looks like it’s getting worse the higher we get. Well, I wanted snow. I guess I got it,” he laughed as the tires began to skid. The muscles in his face tightened and you gripped the door handle fiercely. He seemed to be an excellent driver though, as he carefully turned into the skid and in just a matter of moments had righted the car in it’s proper direction.

“This doesn’t seem safe,” you said, feeling foolish for stating the obvious. Maybe it would have been a better idea to take a train. At least trains aren’t likely to skid of a mountain road and plummet down a gorge. 

“Scared?” He asked, glancing at you for just an instant before bringing his eyes back to the road. You thought you detected a smirk on his face.

“Yes,” you admitted defiantly.

He chuckled again, softly. Not unkindly. “We’ll stop at the next inn I find and wait it out. I need to try and contact the others anyway and see how far everyone’s gotten. Can’t stop now though, or I’m afraid it’ll be too slick to get the car moving again. We’ll press on.”

You nodded tightly as the car began to slide again. 

“Breathe, honey. I’ve got this under control. We’ll be just fine,” he said after getting the car straight again.

You tried to follow his advice and relax, but it was hours before the winding mountain road made it’s way to a tiny logging town. The sun was already beginning to set, at least it seemed like it was. The storm had gone from an all-encompassing white to an all-encompassing blueish grey. 

The inn was tiny. It looked more like a single-family house, in fact. You glanced nervously at Buster, but if he was anxious about the accommodations he didn’t show it. If anything, the only emotion he showed was relief and a desire to get to a phone. 

Inside the damp little inn, the scent of stale cigarette smoke was overpowering. You wrapped your coat around you tighter and followed closely behind Buster as he made the inquiries.

“There’s only one room left, I’m afraid,” the innkeeper, a spindly man with a too-thin mustache, said when Buster asked for two.

Buster looked over his shoulder at you then back at the innkeeper.

“There’s a couch in the room, at least?”

The innkeeper shrugged apologetically. “It’s a chair.”

You watched Buster’s shoulders rise and fall in a short sigh. “Well, I’ll sleep in the chair then. If that’s all you’ve got. We’ll take the room. And a hot meal brought up as well, please.”

The innkeeper nodded, quickly fumbling underneath the desk for a key before leading the two of you down the hall. The long, dark hallway was buffeted by the storm outside, the gales of wind whistling through the drafty corridor. It gave you the creeps, and you jogged a step or two to get closer to Buster. As awkward as it may be to share a room for the night, you couldn’t help but silently admit to yourself that you would be glad for his company in this dreary little place, so cut off from the world you knew.

The room you were led too was small and dark. There was no electricity, and the only light was the reddish yellow glow of an old oil lamp screwed into the wall. A shiver went down your spine.

The innkeeper left, promising a meal to be brought to the room shortly, and you hovered near the door.

Buster didn’t seem to notice the eerie quality of the accommodations. He went immediately to the small fireplace against the far wall and set to work arranging logs and kindling before igniting the fire with his silver cigarette lighter. At the same time, he retrieved a cigarette from his case and lit it, sitting back on his heels as he watched the fire to be sure that the logs caught.. 

The heavy scent of his expensive cigarettes filled the air, masking the old, musty scent that seemed to emanate from the very walls. 

“Cigarette?” He asked, reaching out his gold-inlaid cigarette case as you approached the fledgling fire, your coat still wrapped tightly around your shoulders.

“Oh, no thank you.”

He tucked the case back into his inner jacket pocket and took a slow drag, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. More like a working man than a wealthy sophisticate. In the flickering firelight, the hard angles of his face looked more severe than ever. His eyes glittered though, reflecting the dancing flames.

“Cozy, hm?” he asked after a moment. You joined him on the ground, tucking your legs up beneath you. You noticed that he wasn’t watching the fire anymore, but keeping his gaze on you from the corner of his eyes. Surreptitiously, almost.

“It’s better now,” you said, tilting your chin towards the fire, letting the heat of it lick the cold from your nose and cheeks.

“I used to stay in odd little places like this with my folks when I was just a kid.”

“Really?” You asked.

He nodded, glancing around the room. “Vaudeville. We were on the move most of he time. I’ve never been here before, but this place feels more like home than most places I stay at these days.”

You felt a bit bad for being so uncomfortable before now. Perhaps you’d been too hasty to judge. It really was cozy, in it’s own way. If it was good enough for Buster Keaton...

“It’s hard to imagine you living in places like this,” you said. “You’re so...”

He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“...Elegant.”

He laughed, tipping his head back and exposing the long line of his neck. This wasn’t his typical sly chuckle, but a full throated laugh that spread to you infectiously.

“I didn’t realize that I gave that impression,” he said when his laughter had died down. “I suppose it’s the money. That’s all an accident though, you know. I was in the right place at the right time. That’s all.” He picked a twig up off the floor near the stone hearth and tossed it into the fire. “I’m the same as I’ve ever been. Strange little vagabond kid, through and through.”

“There is a boyishness to you,” you agreed. “It’s charming.” When he looked back at you, though, there was a darkness to his eyes as they flickered over your face. An intensity that wasn’t boyish at all. The half-circle of firelight that undulated around you seemed to constrict, the space between you tightening. A man of his skill and vision would have been successful in pictures no matter what, but he would not be the star he was were it not for this, the stony, statue-like beauty of his face. Funny men came and went, but his face was made for he screen, and you knew in that moment that this face, these features, would be seared onto history’s memory for ages to come. 

Your heart constricted oddly in your chest at the thought that the beautiful man who delighted so many countless thousands was here, so close. When he blinked, his eyelashes cast long shadows over the top of his cheekbones. He was close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss.

You jumped when a knock came to the door.

“It’s unlocked,” Buster called, his shoulders relaxing as the spell was broken. The door opened and the light from the hall spilled into the room as a cart was wheeled in, laden with a simple supper on mismatched china.


End file.
